


Take Me Back To The Darkness

by smokeandembers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokeandembers/pseuds/smokeandembers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has just faked his death, he's gone away to Athens to hide, and perhaps start living, but his past keeps haunting him, and he constantly finds himself trying to forget permanently. Can he continue to be his own island of a man, keeping the world a bay, or will someone, Laura Castro especially, run her way into his life. What happens during the two years away from England, and what happens when he's forced to return after?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Back To The Darkness

  
He was running, running away from everything. His feet were heavy with each tread, the dust swirling around him. Everything was a blur to him, nothing had been concrete and sharp since he left. Everything was an illusion. He wasn’t real here. He was nothing, just the dust, the air, the motion. He stopped and gasped for air, his lungs straining against his chest. He collapsed against the dirt, gripping to the stones along the path. How many times had he circled around and around until he couldn’t think anymore, until it hurt to breathe in and remember. How many? He heard the distinct sound of running feet behind him, rhythmic and steady. They weren’t like the ones in his dream, the loud rapping of running feet against concrete, the urgency in numbers behind him, threatening to kill him, to kill everyone, to kill John. He closed his eyes, focusing, the steps became softer and slower and finally ceased into silent steps. He could sense the person breathing a few feet away, cautious. He wanted to turn and see who it was, but he was afraid of who it could be, what if it was John and this hiding game was over? What if it wasn’t? What if it was Irene? Or Moriarty? Or perhaps Mycroft? OH please, Mycroft? Sherlock chuckled and heard a shift in step.  He opened his eyes, they burned with the sun and sweat. He stood up uneasy on his feet, his back still turned away. If this person wanted to kill him, why hadn’t they already? A gunshot while he was turned away would’ve been mercy killing, a stab to the back would’ve been betrayal, and an act of cowardice. what did this person want? To face him? To see him in the flesh, peer into his eyes and then deliver the final blow, the silence gripped his mind. How many possibilities but only one outcome. Who was it?  
“Are you all right?”  
It was a woman. He turned to face her, his face flushed and hot. 5’8, 36 27, 38. She was young, not even in her thirties young. And definitely American. Studying abroad? The fine grays in dark her hair meant stress, her nails were cut and clean but her bitten cuticles meant stress load heavy. Her right hand middle finger was slightly crooked but her left finger wasn’t. Pen pressure, often writing, writer? doctor? Intelligent none the less. Her eyes were small, and squinting, could be from the sun, could be from bad eyes sight, she needed glasses.  Reader? Professor? Teacher?  Her body was toned, she was active, legs suggested running, so did worn out shorts, worn in shoes, worn out shirt, and sweat stained head band. But… besides the stress, Sherlock could not read her expression. Was that concern? Was that annoyance? Was that curiosity? Why hadn’t she left yet? He took an extended amount of time on the ground, why hadn’t she left yet? Why was she still here? WHY!  
“What do you want?” he asked breathing heavier than he anticipated, his lungs were struggling to get any air in. He clutched his chest, his breathing was still strained, and he began to teeter forward. His eye sight swirled around her. She stepped forward and touched him. Sherlock pulled away startled, and suddenly the darkness swallowed him as he tumbled backwards, the ground felt soft as his body crashed.

“I NEED SOMEONES ASSISTANCE IMMEDIATELY!” her voice was strained. Sherlock, could hear her heavy breathing in his ear. He could hear, her voice echo away. He felt so heavy, as if gravity wanted to pull him closer and closer, and finally swallow him whole. At this moment, it would’ve been a dream to suddenly cease to exist. To suddenly by no control of your own give in to the darkness, complete surrender, complete disappearance with no explanation, a soft death. For all he had done, would John ever forgive him? He sighed, no. He probably wouldn’t. And death, death was as far away from him as death could be. Sherlock could hear his soft heartbeat beat away, over the heart beat of a hummingbird, whose lungs strained harder and harder. Her voice was loud, and trembling, so close to him yet he could not grasp where or how he was. His body slowly awoke with his hands, fingers jerked softly, and a warmth and wetness licked his belly. His skin prickled, there was a cold draft against his back. There was an intake of breath and jerk that hiked his body up against a warm back. Her bones, dug into his, round and hard, they held him up, and he against his will, pushed her down, deeper, into her knees, into her ankles, into the earth. He wanted to move his arm, wanted to reach out into the darkness to see, but he couldn’t, it was numb and stinging.  
“CAN ANYONE HEAR ME!”  
“Who are you? What do you want?” a voice snarled back.  
“He passed out on the trail, I’ve seen him in here. He needs oxygen.“  
“He doesn’t belong here”  
“For god sakes! Then where!”  
“Not here.”  
“The least you could do is offer me a bed to lie him in.”  
“I can’t do that”  
“Why...the...fuck...not?” Sherlock murmured out loud.  
“See he’s perfectly fine.”  
“HE’S NOT!”  
“Look, I can’t do anything for you here. Take him out, now.”  
  
The darkness filled his ears like water, distorting and disorienting the sounds around him. It cradled him in her ambiguity and lulled him back into the deep slumber, he gave in willingly, hopeful for once to die.  
  
The water trickled down his temple, he smiled involuntarily, it felt good against his skin. Was he dead yet? Was his suffering and running over? Was it finally time to rest? He felt a pair of soft hands, play with his hair, trailing water over and over his head. He could sleep forever like this. Never bother to open his eyes, never bother to think ever again, just feel, just sleep. Finger tips swept over his hair, down his nose, over his lips. They tickled him with their fragile touch, his skin bursting with goosebumps.  
“Are you awake?” a voice low and hoarse asked. “please be awake”  
“ I- I don’t -want to be” he struggled. His tongue was stuck against his mouth, parched and salty.  
“Wait”  
Sherlock tried to open his eyes. Clearly he was alive, and against his will, awake.  
“Drink.”  
“Why-why should I?”  
A laugh erupted into the room, loud and flowing, Sherlock open his eyes to glimpse her mouth open and teeth bright and white closing into a smile.  
“Because you’re dying of dehydration.”  
He looked at the glass, and scrunched his nose. His eyes squinted trying to focus on the liquid, were there any residuals of pills crushed up? Had it been administered already? Where was he? Who was she? Could she be trusted? She looked at him and at the glass and shook her head.  
“I didn’t poison it, look.” She brought the glass to her lips and drank.  
“I didn’t think you did.”  
“No, you definitely thought I did.” she smiled, and placed the glass beside him. She wrapped her arms around him and helped him sit up. She smelled like strawberries and daisies. And Sherlock tried not to breathe. How long had he been unconscious if she had time to shower and change? He held the glass, her lips had left a faint mark against the glass, and he pressed his mouth to it and drank, the water felt cold and refreshing against his hot throat. He placed the glass back down and looked around. He was in a small bedroom, he looked around. The desk was pushed against the window, the curtains drawn shut and was kept clean and organized. To a degree that displayed a slight OCD, but mainly stress. Books were organized on the book shelve by Author, not size or genre. The fact that her book shelve was filled from head to toe gave away to his first question: Writer. The stacks of paper filed away in manila folders also gave away to professor. He’d have to ask her eventually. There was a darker wood stain where her hands rested against the wood night after night. She spent a lot of time sitting. There was scratch marks on the tiled floor. If he bothered to look further he could probably see her pacing trail. Her room was plain and overtly clean, it smelled of the lemon cleaner Mycroft’s maid used in his home. By the soft lingering scent, she had cleaned it the night before. There were frames both on her night stands and desk. Family, but not lover. He noted her left hand was also bare, but with a slight tan-line. Divorced? Engaged? Married? He looked back at her and she was watching him.  
“Found anything that strikes your fancy?”  
“Professor or writer?”  
“Both.”  
A black cat jumped on her lap and settled itself between her legs and stared at him through jade eyes.  
“You’re a bit lonely.”  
“Oh, am I? It seems I’m not the only one.”  
“We’re you engaged once?”  
“My-my, and I thought you were just judging my room.”  
“Were you?”  
“Can you tell me your name first? I don’t even know you.”  
“Are you accustomed to bringing strangers to your bedroom?”  
“I’m accustomed in bringing in strays... Plus, you passed out and went into Heat Stroke. I had to do something, I can’t stand having bad karma”  
“I’m William- William Scott.”  
“Hi Will,I’m Laura.” He noticed she said it in spanish and smiled.  
“I prefer William”  
“And I prefer my bed unoccupied but what can we do?” She smiled and got up, the cat jumping off and circling her legs.  
“What time is it?”  
“It’s 6pm. And according to Plato, feeding time.”  
“I better get going.”  
“I’d say!” She laughed and went into the living room. Sherlock couldn’t help but watch the way her hips swayed. Her black jean shorts tight and fitting around her legs...and asset. He got a tinge of nostalgia. His body reacted to Laura, like it once did to Irene. He sighed, that life was gone now. He was no longer Sherlock, he was William. Or at least to her, to one insignificant person he was someone, but after tonight he’d be nothing but a memory. He pushed his body out of her bed, and onto the cold floor. His shoes and socks were by the night stand and a sweater was placed beside them. He stretched his body, pulling his arms high above his head and behind him. A deep sigh escaped him, he was sorer than he had anticipated.  
“You stretch like a cat.” her voice was far away. She was in the hallway watching him.  
“You move like one.”  
She moved closer, and brought him a bowl of soup.  
“It’s probably your feeding time too.”  
His stomach grumbled and answered before he could.  
“I’ll let you put your shoes on and you can keep that sweater- and I’ll leave this on the table.”  
“You don’t have to, I mean. You’ve done enough. I should go”  
“Why?”  
“Why? Because I should.”  
“Look, just take the soup, it’ll do you good, your body clearly needs it. Don’t make it about your pride. We can arrange that later.”  
Sherlock looked at her, sitting beside him on her bed, bowl of soup in hand. Black shorts, red tank top. They were miles away from England in Athens. He could be anybody. He could be Cupid, she could be his Psyche, he could worship her, he could...he could also break her. He could be the villain, he could be Hades, she would be his Persephone, He took her complexion in, the small freckles, the hazel green eyes, how long her hair was, and how dark it was. He reached forward and she stayed perfectly still, and reached for the soup and kissed her cheek. He could let himself love her if he wanted.


End file.
